Love is Like That
by VioletLolitaPop
Summary: With that lipstick, she looks as beautiful as ever, and for a split second it has him forget that she no longer belongs to him. .:1920's : fem!merica : racial slurs : no happy endings:.


**xxx**

_Love tore my heart  
Tore my soul  
It shattered everything_

**xxx**

The streets are dimmed and slick with the remnants of snow that has been swept off to the side. The gloss of the cobble stoned pavement shines in the little light provided, doing it's best to warn all those who walk upon them of the impending danger one could face when traipsing about so late at night.

The surrounding shops are dark and show no signs of life. There's here's nothing to combat against the sounds of his feet crunching against the loose gravel of his heavy breathing that comes as a combination of his chain smoking habit and the exertion he finds himself committing. As he shrugs against the cold, pulls the collars of his overcoat higher above the scarf wrapped around his neck to keep warm, he finds himself thinking of how wonderful it will be to own an automobile of his own, so that he would have no need to traipse around as he does now against the bitter elements of all winter seasons to come. As quickly as it comes though, he shrugs away the thought that is nothing more than a passing fancy. Such extravagances are still yet unattainable with his position, best to keep his mind focused on present work and present matters, not the willy nilly hopes and dreams of futures that may not hold in the end.

Which is a bit hypocritical, honestly, to think such. Seeing as how he is currently on his way to see one of those many hopes and dreams of futures best forgotten.

The sudden realization has him pause in the middle of the street. His chest heaves as his heart attempts to revert to normalcy, and the icy winds and chilled temperatures he inhales burns at his lungs, a feeling amplified with every exhale as he tilts his head upwards at the sky. He plagues himself with the many reasons of why he's visiting this particular location with a calm and collected sense of rationality. He counts the stars that are so visible in this part of the city, away from the ever growing pollution that comes with the wealthier set until he's ready to continue onward.

A pair of young women soon approach him; their heeled shoes creating clicking noises along the sidewalk the travel on with linked arms, bundled up in brown furs that show off the hems of their calf-length dresses and dark colored cloche hats pulled close to their heads. They pass him in a cloud of shared giggles, flowery perfume, and white powder, only stopping briefly to wish him a good evening as he does the same and the underlying smell of liquor and cigarette smoke catches up with them momentarily before becoming lost again in their hurry. It's enough to give him the impression that they are coming from the very place he is traveling, and for some reason, it causes him to walk a bit faster.

It's nothing particularly special on the outside. It looks like any of the other Chinese shops littering this part of town; large foreign characters printed above the smaller English translation on maroon colored valances and framed signs put on display against dulled brick walls. The entrance rests on the far right corner of the building, in the form of a weathered green door that carries a single small window at the top. He scrapes his feet clean of any debris that may have attached during his walk against the stone steps leading up to the entrance before opening it wide with a single motion. A small bell chimes above the frame, alerting the owner, an older Chinese man of shorter height dressed in his usual attire of red work clothes. There is no greeting given to him, only a curious look with raised eyebrows before he goes on to jotting notes in an opened ledger. All the same, it does not put him off.

"Evening, Yao," he greets and removes his hat while approaching closer to the counter. "How is business?"

"Busy," comes the reply in accented English. "But I will not complain."

"I should think not." The closer he walks to the counter, the more inclined Yao is to abandon his work for the sake of polite conversation, and extention he is all too eager to take. "I am seeing little birds fly in loops all over. I am thinking they are drinking too much of some giggle water."

"I sell medicines of all kind in this shop. One need only to look underneath the underneath."

Yao's response has him break into a bit of a chuckle. "If that is invitation, I happily accept."

A gesture towards the back wall is made, one decorated with shelves filled witth small boxes stamped with small red symbols and vials of clear liquids.

"You know where to go," Yao tells him with a nod and says nothing more as he walks away.

He reaches the door in no time at all, and with just a bit of force, he pulls at a section of shelf space until it shudders loose and swings forward. A narrow staircase leads down to basement level, small lily shaped light fixtures hung on the wall form small pools of yellow light that barely show the landing at the bottom. However, before he's able to descend, Yao speaks once more.

"Ivan," he calls and is instantly given the attention he wants. "She is working tonight. Do you think it is good idea?"

Ivan clutches the hat in his hands tightly, bending the brim with an almost brutal grip as his eyes roll upwards while thinking over the question. When he finally gives and answer, he replies with a sweet looking smile and a simple, "No."

He turns again, leaving Yao to stare after him for a moment longer before turning back to his work with a knowing little sight, and as he embarks further into the basement of the shop, he can hear the muffled jazz band. When he comes to stand before a simple brown door with a single gold tarnished knob. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, turns the knob, and steps inside.

He's instantly hit with a heated atmosphere that causes an overwhelming sensation to wash over him, making him feel too warm wrapped with his scarf and tucked away in his coat. There are crowded tables kept along the walls of the basement in snug clumps that run along the far wall and the juncturing wall on the left from the entrance where the small clouds of smoke from cigarettes and cigars linger the most. Opposite, right in front of him along the far right wall, a long polished bar stands with two men tending to the mass of people littering the surface with empty glasses and their demands for quicker service.

Ivan ignores the chaos around him, all those who are laughing too enthusiastically and shouting to one another over the music in favor of the band playing on the cramped stage set up to the back of the room. It's made up of the usual members of any jazz band playing the underground these days, all for the easy pennies of proprietors that cater to their customer's need for loud music to dance. Just as those in front of the stage do now, even in such crowded conditions, there are many occupying the small square designated for them.

He scans the stage quickly, sees only the musicians and feels relieved for the time being. There's no sign of her just yet, but it's only a matter of time before her appearance, and that in itself is enough motivation for himself to find a place for himself to sit. Eventually he finds one by foregoing the crowded section of tables and patrons by scanning the bar, even walking along it once of twice before a stool has been vacated and he slinks into it inconspicuously. The minute he's secure in his seat, a bartender makes his way over to him.

His blonde hair hangs in loose waves close to his shoulders, no doubt styled beforehand but now because of the heated atmosphere of the speakeasy and the pace of his work has come undone. The sleeves of his dress shirt have been pushed up past his elbows, his waistcoat spotted from splashed liquor, and his cheeks a bit too pink to be normal.

"What can I get for ya?" He asks it in a rush, all while pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, though he does smile as the whole while.

"What is it that you have in stock?" Ivan questions in return.

"Not much," he confesses with a slight shrug. "Some whiskey, bit of absinthe, a whole lot of gin. There's a lot of mixings going on in the crowds tonight."

Ivan hums slightly, pats the surface of the bar in thought and does nothing more than give the man a small smile in return at first. There isn't any promise of his preferred choice of alcohol just by the tone of his voice, he figures it would be best skip asking after it and face the disappointment to hear otherwise. "What is it that you like best?"

"I'm liking the Long Island Tea right now. But I'll be on the level, it's because right now it's fifty-fifty on the whiskey and syrup."

"I will have straight whiskey, thank you."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat, please."

With a promise of a quick return, he leaves Ivan to himself.

There isn't much for him to do on his own as the allure of people watching is a bit lost on him. After the first hundred or so visits, he finds the pattern of patrons to be one in the same with only minimal differences. Sure enough, as he looks to the dance floor there is the small handful of young women in their typical dress, dancing in near perfect synchronization with their garters flapping beneath the hems of their held up skirts. Down on the opposite side of the bar, a man laughs a bit too rambunctiously, pounds the bar's surface with a clenched fist as another begins to spill out profanities just as loudly. He's more than happy to take up his drink when it finally arrives, and for more than one reason.

Moments after taking it up in his hand, just as the current set comes to a close and the small burst of applause that follows, he turns towards the stage and in doing so it causes him to pause and do nothing more than stare as his eyes come to land on her.

She's made her way in front of the band in the short time it took him to thank the bartender for his drink, dressed in red, a silky number that drapes just below her knees and is studded with sliver beads and rhinestones that make up little designs. Her blonde hair is curled and framed around her face in tight waves, glowing gold under the yellow lights hanging above. The very sight has his breath catch, and as he keeps watch on her, takes in every little smile and quick word directed at her band mates as a new tune is picked up on her, he forces himself to turn away before her eyes can land on him just as she starts to glance around the crowd in front of her.

Ivan slumps forward to keep a low profile, his shoulders tight and only able to loosen with the first note she sings. Though rather in a comforting manner, it's something more melancholic, as though the jaunty tune and uplifting words she sings does nothing more than cause the constricting feeling in his chest to tighten. It appears to still be too soon for him to be near and it is such a shame. He really does miss her singing.

So, with an overly strong grip surrounding the glass in his hand, he finishes his drink, and just as he registers the band's current song hitting it's final notes, he puts in another order with the same blonde bartender. He isn't normally such a coward, however, with the way things seem to be progressing, he may very well need some extra liquid courage for his daring escape. Perhaps he's a bit too paranoid in his thinking, but the room, for however many people it may be able to fit, is small and she has been known to have very sharp eyes in the most inconvenient at times.

Which, in hindsight, is something he should have taken into account long before now. If what he wants is to leave without having any form of recognition, or at least a run-in of any kind, he should be paying more attention. By the time his drink makes it to him, the band's picked up again, something new and even more lively than before, but with a clear lack of vocals accompanying them. That leads to the point, where Ivan is kept from taking his first drink as intended for the second time this night.

"Well, ain't this a copacetic sight?"

He doesn't have to turn to identify that voice, and not because it's the same one he's just heard singing. It's the same voice that haunts his dreams and his nightmares. The very same one that whispers the words spoken to him so long ago whenever he goes out to work and comes home to empty rooms.

Before he's able to sink further down into any more melancholic thoughts, he goes with the inevitable and places his drink back on to the counter, and turns to face her.

"Amelia," he greets with his small smile in place. "What a surprise this is."

She stands with one hand on her hip, looking almost amused at his words before she shrugs them off for being the pathetic excuse that they are and gives her attention to the man sitting next to him. Ivan follows her line of sight, finally taking notice of the young man - tanned, rugged, and with an odd sort of bandage running across the bridge of his nose - and is a bit shamed to feel the slight tug of jealousy pooling at the bottom of his stomach as she speaks.

"Hey there, Jack,"she says. "Mind if a lady takes that seat of yours?"

"Sure thing, Mel," he replies with a quirk of his lips. "Where is she?"

Amelia makes a silly little face at him, raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes, she even sticks her tongue out at him a little. It's all in good nature, and has this Jack fellow laugh and relinquish his seat to her. He says something about "wanting to pull a drugstore cowboy in any case", and while the phrase seems somewhat familiar to Ivan, he doesn't bother to decipher the meaning in favor of watching Amelia slink into his seat and put in an order for a drink.

"Matthew," she calls and is instantly granted the attention of the same blonde bartender that has catered to Ivan before. "Gimme a Foghorn, will ya?"

Up close, he's able to see the complete imperfections of her make-up as they are usually. Her face is powdered too white, the green color on her eyes smudges too messily with the thick amount of liner surrounding them, and her eye brows are too thick and arched in way that is not considered in vogue. What never ceases to amaze him however, is the care she takes when shaping her lips, and even in the color she selects. Ivan is sure that no other woman wears a color as dark as she does, and in some odd way it pulls her face together. It erases the imperfections and makes her appear more attractive than anyone else nearby.

With that lipstick, she looks as beautiful as ever, and for a split second it has him forget that she no longer belongs to him.

"Should you not be up there on the stage to sing?" he asks once he's snapped out of his reverie and she's settled down comfortably.

Amelia looks upwards in thought, almost mockingly so, and blows a bit of air out from between her teeth. "I guess I didn't prepare myself or something. My throat was feeling a bit scratchy up there, y'see. Figured a quick trip to the watering hole would fix it up quick before I go on with my set."

"And I am supposing those sharp eyes of yours did not notice me from afar and play some part in that decision?"

Said sharp eyes of hers instantly roll. "Ish kabibble, this scene here's a total coincidence."

Matthew returns with her drink, he doesn't even think twice about the way she dismisses him with barely a 'thank you' and goes back to his work. Ivan's ready to consider her words as another excuse to be near him, as though his pull to her is just as strong as hers is to him, but the sight of her nails that he's given as she wraps her hand around her glass says differently. They're painted a solid color*, red from the base to the tip, and it may very well mean that she had been in a rush earlier in the evening, causing her to not prepare her voice as well as it she likes.

He doesn't know how to feel should it be true.

"So tell me," she says after taking a small drink, "what's a lap dog doing so far away from it's owner?"

His jaw clenches and his eyebrow twitches. "I have the evening to myself."

"Oh, is that right? Well, I guess you start getting perks when you start climbing through ranks, huh? So, what? You finally got from lackey to bootlegger? Or are you finally bumping people off?"

Ivan tries to keep himself from fidgeting in his seat. "Ah, no. No, my position has not changed."

"Ah, drats!"

She says it with a sarcastic edge that's sharp enough to mean every ill intention available, and accompanied with a small smirk that holds every winning side of every argument they've gone through at the ends of their relationship and is only slightly hidden behind her raised glass. It strikes a nerve inside of him more than he cares for, and he isn't able to let it slide.

"I suppose though, that little perks that are earned after working for so long cannot be compared to the great leap of singing in speakeasies from working on one's back."

Amelia slams her glass down onto the counter, smashing it and splattering the remainder of her drink everywhere. It causes an instant spectacle, drawing the focus from all those surrounding them. It even has Matthew scuttle back over to them in a hurry, his eyes filled with nothing but concern for Amelia and a suspiciously dirty look thrown at Ivan.

"Is everything alright over here, Amy?" he asks.

"Everything's just Jake, Mattie," she replies, though she does not turn her eyes away from Ivan. "Don't worry about it. Sorry about the mess though."

He mutters something under his breath, a quick sentence of it be perfectly fine when it obviously isn't no doubt, and they both watch quietly as he cleans up the remnants of her drink with a rag. His eyes lock with hers for no more than a second or two. It's a fast and wordless conversation between the two of them and only ends with a subtle nod Amelia gives him as a dismissal, one that he gives however uncertain.

Amelia lets out a weary sounding sigh, and even her shoulder sag a bit. Her eyes dart toward Ivan and he can see right away that the cheer in her face is completely gone.

"You have a ciggy on you?" she asks. "Or is it ethically wrong for a two-bit hood to help out an old whore now?"

Ivan fumbles for the packet of cigarettes he keeps on hand. He finds them in the inside of his coat, stored away carefully from the harsh elements outside and holds them out for her to take one. As she does so, he digs for the box of matches that should be kept in the same place. Luckily enough it is, and he goes ahead and strikes it alight before he's even asked.

"You slighted me first," he says as he lights her cigarette.

"Yeah, sure," she mutters and leans forward to puff in the flame.

He blows out the light and waves the lingering flame away before curling it into yet another pocket for later disposal. "I am sorry. I should not have said that."

Amelia`flicks a bit of ash hanging from the end of her cigarette onto the counter without a second thought. "I shouldn't have gotten mad. Not like it isn't the truth."

"It was more hurtful than it was honest.. I am sorry-"

"I'll forgive you if it'll quit yer yappin'. For the record though, I ain't sorry."

"I would think not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He doesn't reply, at least not verbally. All Ivan does is give her a small smile and shakes his head as an afterthought, something along the lines of a dismissal and quiet plead to move on to the next subject. Amelia's eyes narrow a bit, they even look him up and down in a quick study before darting off to the side with another drag of her cigarette. He becomes a bit distracted at the way her mouth shapes around it, he's taken back to when he would see the very same sight in the window of his home.

"How's the one kid?" she asks and snaps him back to the present. "The one that I liked, the Polak."

"Toris is from Lithuania. And he is missing."

"Missing?" Her entire body is rigid and tense, her face stony with a tinge of fear.

"Missing," he nods. "We do not know where he is. He was transport some items, the items were received.. but Toris did not return."

Amelia remains quiet for the longest time. Her cigarette is reduced down to half it's size, the end is nothing but ash barely kept together by the time she moves to strike it all away in a nearby empty glass. Her eyes are slightly glossed over, only somewhat noticeable in the yellow light surrounding them.

"He probably high tailed it outta here," she says with a fake little smile. "It's what I'da done. Given the chance."

Ivan doesn't see the necessity in pointing out how improbable such scenario would be, though because in all honesty he would rather believe such himself rather the more likely alternative, he indulges in her denial and agrees. It puts her a bit more at ease, but does little to comfort him.

"We lost someone of our own, y'know," she says in an attempt to switch to a lighter subject. "Notice anything different up there?"

Her head nods towards the stage and he follows the gesture without hesitation. What he sees in the band she's been a part of since he's met her, spotting no obvious difference and wonders for a moment or two what it is he's meant to notice before realizing what is missing.

"Roderich is not at the piano," he says, and is actually quite surprised by the fact.

"That's right," she says with a small smile. "He took off with some choice bit of calico he'd been shacking up with. She does Vaudeville with some travelling acts and when she asked him to come with," she pauses to sigh somewhat dreamily, "there he went."

"How unfortunate for the band." He means as much honestly, though his comment also plays as a deterrent for any lingering thoughts on the way Amelia gives her explanation. He'd rather not think too much on the tone she uses, just in case. So, instead, he decides to study the one in front of the piano, wearing an almost exact replica of dark hair and flyaway strand sticking upwards in near the same manner as Roderich's. He isn't able to make a detailed assessment other than his familiarity with the keys by the way he moves. It isn't until he glances over his shoulder at another member playing that Ivan is able to see dark almond shaped eyes and a face that's gone through little aging. "This one is young."

"Just seventeen, I reckon, though he's lyin' about his age. Claims to be around twenty-one, but that's a hunk of baloney."

A simple smile quirks at his lips. "This sounds like a familiar tale."

Amelia only shrugs and flicks at her cigarette, misses the glass she's taken for her own and scattering ashes all over the counter. "Needs, must and all that. Besides, it don't matter to me much, really. He can play, that's what's important. He can work, too, and if you wanna get technical on age ain't be nothin' but a number, he sure as hell looks like a man underneath all them clothes."

Ivan's stomach twists. There's a lump forming in his throat that he isn't quite able to swallow and his eyes narrow ever so slightly at her. "And how do you know this?"

Her eyes dance with amusement and she forces him to wait for her response, takes a small puff at her cigarette and shoots him a smile that shows the entire top row of her teeth. "Really? You're asking that?"

"I would like to not make assumptions."

"Assume away, you know how much I love making people talk."

She looks at him in a way that is both daring and boastful. He isn't quite sure what she expects from him other than the obvious words he could say on the matter, though as much as she baits at him, he doesn't bite. Instead he picks up his drink for a small swig and darts his eyes over at the young piano player for another glance over.

"He is very small, even for his correct age. But I suppose all chinks are, are they not?"

"Korean," she corrects. "Maybe, I don't really know. I just know he ain't a Chinaman."

"He has a silly look to him," he goes on and watches as she takes another drag. "Does he still have a thick accent when he tries to speak English?"

A cloud of acrid smoke shoots out from between her lips and floats up towards the rafters. She throws the butt down into the pile of ashes in the same glass, pushes it to the side for either Matthew or the other bartender to collect and does nothing but grin. "Ain't that funny? A bohunk like you flapping your gums about someone who probably came off the boat the same time you did."

"I am merely trying to understand the attraction."

She quirks her eyebrow and leans her upper body forward towards him so that she's practically falling off from her own seat. If he wanted to, he could see down her dress just by lowering his eyes.

He keeps them set on her face.

"I always did go for the foreign types," she says. "Especially the ones with an accent. But I'm sure you remember that."

He does remember. He's able to recall their introduction almost perfectly, how she broke into the largest smile he's ever seen when first hearing his accent and declaring it to be "the most darling thing" she's ever heard. The constant pestering she would give him whenever they were together, asking him to say this word or that, and it was always followed by a delayed set of questions of whether or not asking such was alright with him. Eventually it turned to her wanting to learn how to pronounce things herself, and he'll never forget the way she whimpered and grasped at the back of his head, squeezed her legs around him even tighter as he thrust into her and would whisper sweet nothings into her ear that he would later refuse to translate.

It makes his fists clench and his stomach drop to think of someone else having those moments now.

"Hmm.. I wonder why that is," he says, and leaves it at that.

He honestly does wonder at times. He's perfectly aware why he had fallen for her, but he's never quite figured why she stayed with him for as long as she had. Even as the arguments and bickering between them grew, they would curl together in his small hovel of an apartment and sleep through the night clinging on to one another. She could have left at any moment, even the same night she asked if he could ever imagine them living outside of the city and he made half-baked responses about how profitable his line of work is really. Amelia hadn't been pleased at his answer and left to stay with a friend. Ivan didn't understand why until The Scare, the small time frame where all she did was cry until they learned it was nothing but a false alarm.

There was nothing growing inside of her, which left him feeling a bit sad, but she was overjoyed. She packed her bags and left that night.

"Who knows," she says and wistfully draws a small pattern against the wood with the tip of her finger. "So then... Y'know, you didn't answer my first question."

"And that is?"

"Why are you here?"

He pauses to think of a believable excuse, and eventually comes to ask, "Would you believe good drinks and atmosphere?"

Her abrupt laughter is all the answer he needs and it becomes infection. His own laughter bubbles up from his throat in low chuckles and mixes with her in a perfect symphony. It's the first time in a long time that anything from the two of them have been entwined, and even in this case where it's nothing more than their dying giggles and sighs, it has him feel warm. More to the fact, it has him relive all the small moments they've shared where he's felt similar. He's quicker to pull himself out of such thoughts this time, just now coming to the conclusion of there being no use to recall them now.

However, as Ivan removes himself from his own self-reflections to turn his attention back to Amelia, he catches her doing the same. There's the slight gloss to her eyes that shows how she is inattentive to the present, lost in her own thoughts and on finally feeling the gaze he holds on her face, she snaps out of them to catch him looking. Though instead of shrugging off the episode with a small dismissal or even the barest hint of a smile, she remains with an expression of pure contemplation as she stares back.

Perhaps it's for this reason, that without preamble or second thought, he begins to say without a guard in his voice, "Amelia, I still-"

"Ivan, wait," she says to cut him off. The way she looks at him shows a wide range of emotions that change and pass within mere seconds that he isn't able to read them correctly. By the time she settles for one, he recognizes it as the same one she had worn the night she left and causes a pressure in his chest that he tries to swallow and ignore. "You shouldn't come around for awhile."

Whatever feeling of warmth he has attained before drains away from him slowly. He sets his face to hold no specific expression, though it does nothing to keep him from asking, "Why?"

"Because. Because... I feel like I know what you wanna say. And, I feel like I know what I wanna say to that and I dunno if I could stop myself from saying it yet."

Ivan's mouth opens for a retort, but none appears. He's struck speechless by the great opportunity given to him, and he isn't sure how to handle it with the caution it needs to blossom back into something greater between them. Though before he's able to say another word, his silence gives Matthew ample time to sneak back into their presences, announcing himself with nothing but Amelia's name on his lips to grab their attention.

"They wanna know if you're gonna go back on soon," he says. "Also, Yao called from upstairs." At this point he turns towards Ivan with that same wariness surrounding him from before. "There's someone waiting for you outside. Something about your boss needing you tonight after all."

Ivan does not keep himself from closing his eyes and breathing out slowly. It's not so much of being brought in to work on a situation that must have gone awry so late in the night as it is that in being such, it's driven that look of of resolution back into Amelia's eye; a look that she tries to keep subtle by turning her eyes downward to study her nails with overly serious consideration.

Ivan mutters a "Thank you." at Matthew, which has him glance at Amelia who only nods in turns and has him scurry away to relay the information to others. With him out of sight yet again, Amelia regains her composure, back straightened and aglow once more.

"Guess it's time for both of us to get back to work," she says.

He does his best to hide the disappointment in his tone. "Yes. I suppose so."

Amelia raises her eyebrows up briefly, shoots him a quick smile, and slips from her seat. She would have left him without so much as a goodbye or the courteousness of a second glance back, all for the sake of driving her point home no doubt, had Ivan not latched on to her wrist. His grip is loose, one that she could easily shake off but stills and even turns back to him. There are a number of questions marring the carefully constructed expression she wears, and before the courage is able to leave him, Ivan decided to be truthful.

"I came here tonight," he says, slowly and cautiously choosing his words, "because.. I was missing you."

A crack in her armor, only noticeable by the twitch in her cheek and the hitch in her breath, and he isn't able to help himself. A small sliver of hope wiggles it's way into him, though he does his utmost to keep it tempered down.

"I'm not gonna end up like my mother, Ivan. I already told you that." She shakes his hand off from her wrist and gives him a small little shrug. "Sorry, kid."

Her tone shows the sincerity of the words she speaks, and he wonders if he can honestly see the exhaustion, doubt, and regret that lines them, or if it's just his own emotions he's reflecting outwards.

"Maybe I should have not said no to that offer you gave me?" he wonders thoughtfully. "Maybe we should have left the city that day so long ago?"

"I know what I said, but thinking back it's probably too late for us," she says bluntly and with a small, charming smile. "It's rooted in our bones now. We would have killed each other if we did, and then where would that baby be?"

She gives him a half-sort of shrug, turns away from him for the final time and waltzes back into the throng of dancing couples and groups of friends. He watches her slink through it all in her professional manner, and how her maybe-new love interest helps her onto the stage once more. She's all smiles now, and he knows her well enough to see the façade behind them no matter how well of a performance she carries. Even so, she reminds him of how he should be carrying himself, especially now when he is called back to his work.

Ivan has no intention in remaining any longer than necessary. The few lines of her song that's he's able to hear are taken advantage of as he counts out what he owes for his drinks and vacates his seat. Though as he reaches the door, he does pause to glance back, his eyes going directly to the stage where Amelia stands front and center. She cradles the microphone with both of her hands, keeping her eyes closed, or raised up towards the ceiling. It's obvious that she is avoiding any accidents that may involve their eyes locking, and so with that much at least, his shoulders squared and his head held high, he opens the door and leaves.

All in all, he knew this wouldn't be a good idea, but he still has a hard time learning as far as she's concerned.

**xxx**

Disclaimer: Love is like that, what can you do?

*From what I know, the popular way of painting nails was to only paint the middle. Your tip and that half moon shape at the bottom were left white. And honestly, I don't know how girls did that then but it's possible with a toothpick, some damn good scotch tape, and a lot of fricking patience because it takes forever. .-.

-I started this New Years Eve, my mother was watching Hoodlum, I have this insatiable love for the decadence of the 1920's lifestyle, and while trying to finish the chapter for Lullaby Delirium pouted and threw such a fit for this to be written. So I caved.

-Wanted to get this out the same day, didn't happen but whatevs. I'm really unsure about the quality and leaving it as it is. I might revamp it and expand it into a multi-chap later, we'll see.

-Stay shiny, stay safe, there'a a soundtrack on the profile, laters. -xoxo-


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